Blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snow-drop,
Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow,
Fixed like a pale and solitary star,
The languid hyacinth, and wild primrose,
And daisy, trodden down like modesty,
The fox-glove, in whose drooping-bells the bee
Makes her sweet music: the Narcissus, named
From him who died for love, the tangled woodbine
Lilacs and flowering limes, and scented thorns,
And some from whom the voluptuous winds of June